


fine.

by zanzibar



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Lack of Communication, Lake Effect Love, M/M, fine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 07:18:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8657527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zanzibar/pseuds/zanzibar
Summary: "This year it’s different.  He doesn’t miss Connor anymore, the burning in his gut feels like he hates Connor.  Hates Mitch.  Hates Lawson and Auston and Jack and Noah and everyone in the NHL who he doesn’t share a last name."In which Dylan tries to get away, and Connor doesn't let him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have a lot of feelings about Dylan Strome. The end.

Dylan looks across the empty parking lot like Alex might magically appear, like it isn’t obvious that this is a setup. Like there’s a simple explanation for being unceremoniously dumped in an empty state park picnic area parking lot in the middle of February.

 

Dylan yanks his hood over his head and wishes absently that he hadn't thrown his phone in the cup holder in Brinksy's car after a quick glance at the screen, at the messages he doesn’t want to read, the missed calls he won’t return. 

There's a figure up the beach a little ways, sitting on one of the picnic tables, face masked in the late afternoon shadows and Dylan looks around at the empty parking lot one more time and thinks "fuck it" he's Canadian. Maybe a stranger will call him an Uber and he can get out of here.

 

As he walks Dylan looks out across the lake and draws a deep breath, he used to run on the beach here sometimes, a change of pace from days of weights and the ice, the last time he was back, when he missed Connor like an aching phantom limb the quiet steadiness of Lake Erie was sometimes the only thing that soothed him. 

 

This year it’s different. He doesn’t miss Connor anymore, the burning in his gut feels like he hates Connor. Hates Mitch. Hates Lawson and Auston and Jack and Noah and everyone in the NHL who he doesn’t share a last name. Every day he tries to forget that he’s back in Erie, but he does it in the weight room, he does it with extra drills and extra plates on the bar and two more clicks of volume in his headphones. He avoids the places that he used to love, this city that he’s never hated but that he swore he’d never come back to, the team and the league that he’d “grown out of.” He puts on a weight vest and skates and does his best to forget that his best friend is a candidate for the Hart trophy and his other best friend is probably at least going to be a finalist to win the Calder. 

 

Unfortunately the figure on the beach turns into the familiar shape of a Hart Trophy candidate the closer he gets

 

“Goddamn it,” He kicks a rock toward the water, kicks another one harder when the first doesn’t reach the shore.

 

Sometimes it feels like the entire state of Pennsylvania is not big enough for his angst. Sometimes it feels like the only things that understand him are the angry dark waves of Lake Erie and the increasingly angrily depressing Spotify playlist he is curating.

 

“Don’t you have better things to do,” Dylan can’t keep the hateful tone out of his voice, he can hear it but he’s too pissed, too sad, too tired to be anything but the worst version of himself. “It’s fucking freezing out here.”

 

To his credit Connor doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t even stand up, he doesn’t reach out for a hug or a handshake.

 

“If you didn’t want to have this conversation in person you should have answered your phone,” Connor looks small sitting on the picnic table, jeans and a hoodie and a down vest, his arms wrapped around his knees. “You could have said we were done and I would have stayed away. But you didn’t and I’m here now.”

 

“What are you doing here,” Dylan can’t help but ask.

 

“I have sent you two-hundred-and-sixteen text messages since the last time I saw you,” Connor says seriously “and you have responded ‘no’ nine times and ‘fine’ one-hundred-and-eleven times. If I could erase one word for the english language for all of eternity it would be fine.” He says it flatly, the way it sounds in Dylan’s mind when he types it, the four letters that encompass his entire emotional being.

 

“You’re here now,” Dylan shrugs, “and I am fine.” he says it with half a shrug.

 

“I wish you’d talk to me,” Connor says it quietly, more honesty than Dylan wants or deserves.

 

“Why. You won’t understand,” Dylan doesn’t try to keep bitterness that’s threatening to become more than a habit out of his voice. 

 

Because Connor doesn’t, can’t, there was never a question about Connor’s path to the NHL, it was determined before he could grow even a patch of tragic facial hair, Dylan’s facial hair is well on the way to tragedy and his path to professional hockey is no more clear than it was 3 years ago. People make sarcastic comments on twitter about Connor playing World Juniors and people unironically retweet pictures of Dylan crying after they washed out of World Juniors. 

 

Dylan sometimes feels like emotional porn, like there’s an entire group of people that are getting off the tragic fucking nature of his life. But there’s more than enough bitter disappointment to fill his heart before he even gets to the internet. 

 

Connor is captain of his NHL team and Dylan couldn’t even stick with his NHL team. 

 

“Good try,” Connor rests his chin on his knee and looks across the water. “I’d be offended if I didn’t know that Brinks is the only person you’re speaking to in complete sentences and if I hadn’t spoken to your brothers, both of your parents and in set of text messages I never want to repeat asked Coach Knoblach if you were OK.”

 

Dylan doesn’t know what to say to that level of determination. So he just crosses his arms and hugs himself tighter and keeps his mouth shut.

 

“I know I don’t,” Connor swallows, “can’t understand,” Connor looks over and Dylan distracts himself looking up at the barely swaying bare tree branches. “And I guess I understand if you need space. But all I want is to have a conversation with you that consists of words other than ‘fine.’”

 

“I don’t want to have a conversation,” Dylan shifts his feet so the rocks clatter against each other.

 

“I don’t care,” Connor rubs the spot near his collarbone where Dylan knows a scar still hides, “I would rather you tell me just how much you hate me and never want to talk to me again than what we’re doing here Dyls, I don’t even care what format it’s in. Send me a fucking snap that says ‘go away and never come back’ and that’s enough, send me a 20 page email with bullets detailing every way you don’t ever want to be my friend again and I’ll read every damn word. But I don’t know what to do with this.”

 

“And I don’t know what to tell you,” Dylan crosses his arms and looks at Connor defiantly.

 

They stare at each other for a minute before Dylan rocks back on his heels and looks down the beach.

 

“At first,” Connor stands with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, “at first I thought you were sulking, that you’d take your time and have your sulk and it would be like the last time, you’d be pissed and disappointed, but also still be my best friend, still talk to me.”

 

Dylan snorts, “yep - it’s just like last time.”

 

“Well obviously it isn’t,” Connor rolls his eyes.

 

“I didn’t, don’t,” Dylan amends “want to talk about it.”

 

“Fine - we don’t have to talk about hockey,” Connor shrugs.

 

Dylan snorts “if we don’t talk about hockey what would we even -” he doesn’t finish, because through all of this Connor’s looked determined, like he just has to find the right combination and he can solve this problem. But now Connor doesn’t look like anything at all.

 

“I’ll text Alex,” Connor says quietly and pulls his phone out of his back pocket, “he’ll come pick you up.”

 

They sit quietly, waiting. When Dylan looks closer he can see past the careful blankness that Connor learned from John Tavares and perfected before he was ever Exceptional, back when he was just a really good midget hockey player, before all the paperwork, when he was only lower-case exceptional.

 

“I’m getting the Mitch Marner treatment,” Dylan says it quietly, like he’s not sure he wants this truth to set him free. “They actually said that on SportsNet. On reddit and twitter I’m a such a bust that I’m pretty sure they think I should just quit or cut my feet off or burn my skates and Jesus, you’d think that if people were going to talk that much shit about me they wouldn’t actually tag me in their stupid Internet Hockey Writers article.”

 

“You think I don’t hate those things!” Connor rips a hand through his hair, “I think they’re idiots for not seeing what you are, I want to call their stupid 12 year old GM and tell him he’s the biggest moron I’ve ever seen. I want to send them clips, I want to show them your playmaking, I could talk for days about your work ethic and your leadership skills and what a great person you are. You’re amazing and I hate them for what they’ve done to you.”

 

“No,” Dylan whirls back on him, “you wanted to talk and now we’re going to talk.”

 

“I was too slow and not enough of a pro and too inconsistent and as of right now if someone looks up how third overall draft pick Dylan Strome is developing they’ll see that I have one assist in the NHL and am a minus-8. A minus-8 Davo and don’t tell me that plus/minus is a bullshit stat, it means something.”

 

“You’re 19,” 

 

“So are you,” Dylan yells, “you’re the captain of an NHL team and I’m not even on an NHL team. The day I got sent back you scored a hat trick. I’m always going to be a footnote to your headline. I’m always going to be the beneficiary of your generational fucking talent. I can’t live in your shadow forever and I figured this was as good a time as any to figure out how the hell to live without your shadow.”

 

“OK,” Connor shrugs.

 

“OK?” Dylan parrots back.

 

“All I wanted was to know that you were OK,” Connor shakes his head, "you don't have to stay any longer."

 

“I’m not,” Dylan snuffles wetly, “Is that real enough for you. I’m not fine. I’m not OK. I haven’t said that out loud to anyone. But I’m not. And I don’t know how to be.”

 

“OK.” 

 

“OK?” Dylan raises his head.

 

“I don’t know the answer either. But this isn’t about me - except for in the places that it is.”

 

“That doesn’t make any sense,” the bitterness threatens to creep back into Dylan’s voice.

 

“I could tell you but you already know, you know I practice my media answers in the mirror before I go to the rink and that I hate surprises and that sometimes I don’t sleep at night because the pressure of a franchise is on my shoulders, feels like it’s pressing on my chest. You know that when I broke my collarbone I cried myself to sleep and that my favorite sheets have moose wearing scarves on them. You know there’s nowhere in Canada I can go to escape who I am, nowhere that I’m just Connor, nowhere that I’m not the next one or McJesus or whatever other fucking nickname you want to call me. There’s a video of me swearing on the internet and at least 3 of the top comments drag me because I couldn’t wait to get into the locker room to fall apart. The whole world is just waiting for me to fail, waiting for me to stumble so everyone can say they saw it coming a mile away.” Connor sucks in a breath. “But you know all of that, because I told you. Because you’re my best friend.”

 

“I really didn’t want to talk about it.”

 

“You really don’t have to,” even now Connor’s face is so honestly, so openly earnest that Dylan kind of just wants to plow his fist right into it. He squeezes his fingers together and draws a deep breath and waits for Connor to finish. “All I ever wanted was to know that you were OK, to know that you weren’t fucking off to Europe or living in Ryan’s basement and growing a terrible mustache without telling me. I don’t want to call your mom and have to tell her that no, I haven’t talked to you either, but maybe this week is the week you’re something other than fine.”

 

“So you conned Brinks into dropping me off out here in the middle of nowhere in the middle of winter in the freezing fucking cold just so you could see that I’m still here.” Dylan shakes his head. “You’re incredible Davo.”

 

“I don’t want us to be those people,” Connor shrugs.

 

“Which people,” 

 

“There’s a hundred guys who played together in the O or know each other from the Q, a hundred best friends that don’t even talk to each other except for during 2 random interviews a year when someone digs extra deep into their show prep and finds a forgotten connection.” Connor waves his hand dismissively as he says it.

 

“Yea,” 

 

“I don’t want to that, I want to be your best friend whether you’re in Erie or Phoenix or Tucson or none of those places. I don’t even know exactly where Tucson is, but I want to figure it out. I want to hear about whatever you want to tell me about and I don’t care if it’s hockey or basket-weaving or stupid shit games you play on your phone. You’re practically the only time I can just be me and I don’t want to lose that because John fucking Chayka is a moron.” Dylan gapes at Connor, mouth open, like some kind of big mouthed, bottom-dwelling lake fish until Connor blushes and meets his eyes, “what?” He asks quietly.

 

Dylan steps across the frozen rocks to cup Connor’s face in his hands. He smiles for a second at the surprised look in Connor’s eyes and uses that one second where his guard is down to press their lips together. 

 

Connor leans into it like they’ve been kissing for years, like Dylan’s heart isn’t beating in his throat, adrenaline coursing through his veins and making him feel like maybe he’s having a heart attack. Connor kisses like he’s testing a new set of skates, tentative but solid as he gains his footing and Dylan tries to think that he isn’t waiting to be shoved away, like this isn’t something entirely new and unprecedented. Their bodies press together through layers and Connor shivers a little from Dylan’s cold hands on his neck.

 

Connor’s eyes are hazy when Dylan nips at his plush lower lip one more time and then pulls back, “what.” He sucks that lower lip in for a second like he’s testing it out, tasting the slide of Dylan’s teeth and Dylan has to kiss him again, has to lick into his mouth like his only duty in life is to memorize the taste of Connor McDavid. Like there will be a quiz later, an in-depth interview with Elliotte Friedman about exactly how Connor tastes like Wintergreen mints and Old Spice and the clear cold snap of winters in Erie, PA.

 

“Seriously,” Connor pulls back just far enough to say it, their lips still brushing together while he says it. “This is why?”

 

“No,” Dylan slides a hand against the warm skin of Connor’s back just to see him shiver again. “This is independent of that.”

 

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Connor presses their lips together again.

 

“This is something that there was never a right time for,” Dylan shrugs, “I kept waiting and hoping that there’d be some kind of right time, until I was pretty sure there was no right time, so I just did it. The other thing is something I don’t want to talk about,” Dylan links their fingers together, “maybe don’t know how to talk about.” 

 

Connor nods and squeezes their fingers together, “maybe you can try? I’d listen.”

 

“Maybe we can just make out instead,” Dylan tugs Connor toward the parking lot as Alex’s car pulls into view.

 

“Nope,” Connor says, “but I’m not opposed to rewarding complete sentences with making out.”

 

“Well Jesus,” Dylan throws himself into the passenger seat of Alex’s car while Connor climbs gracefully into the back, “if those are the rules I can’t imagine what I have to do for a blowjob.”

 

“I’ll leave you here,” Alex steps on the brake and turns to look at both of them. “I will open the door, drag your asses out of this car and leave you here. And I won’t even be sorry about it.”

 

“It’s OK Brinksy,” Dylan leans back in the seat half a smile playing on his lips, “we’ll be fine.”

 

In the back Connor snorts inelegantly and mutters, “fine.”


End file.
